


Shine A Light

by Siyah_Kedi



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/pseuds/Siyah_Kedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur tests Yusuf’s compounds because he has a need for control.  When that control is wrested from him, <i>things</i> start happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_Give me something to dream  
Give me half of your bitterest pill  
Something from under the surface  
You actually feel_**  
\-- _Keane – Again and Again_

-o0o-

Arthur tests Yusuf’s compounds for him because he likes to feel that he’s in control of something. He can control the testing, and control how the results are processed. Eames, of course, thinks he’s full of shit, and has no problems telling him this.

“You have issues, Arthur,” he says one day when Arthur’s done nothing productive for the job except go under and under and under again for Yusuf, who’s trying to develop a pain-blocker that won’t interfere with the kick or send them to limbo through over-sedation. “Serious control issues.”

“Yeah?” And the curl of Arthur’s lip as Yusuf hooks him up to the PASIV stops just short of nasty. “I may have issues, Mr. Eames,” he says, his voice bitter as black coffee. “But you’ve got the whole damn subscription.”

And before Eames can make sense of this – _did Arthur just make a joke?_ – Yusuf is pressing the button down and Arthur’s asleep, lost in the dream of his own making while he tries to get himself stabbed or non-fatally shot or any number of things Eames doesn’t particularly want to consider in the same thought as the point man. He goes back to his hotel room instead, knowing that when he gets back in the morning Arthur will be snarky and Eames will bring him coffee and get to bask in the adoration of Arthur’s love of caffeine.

They’ve had a complicated relationship through the years, and Eames knows that Arthur will always be around, will always be Arthur, and more than the poker chip he carries in his pocket, he secretly considers Arthur to be his totem, because Arthur will always let him know what’s real.

He only knows he’s dreaming when Arthur’s smiling, these days.

He considers taking his PASIV out and going down and building something of his own, knowing that he can make a projection of Arthur that’s a little less tightly wound, a little less like the black coffee he hates but chokes down because he can’t be bothered to add anything to it. Considers and ponders and thinks, but so far he’s been too much of a coward to do so. For one thing, Arthur would undoubtedly find out about it, if only because the man’s a fucking _mind reader_ and would pick the images out of Eames’ brain the next time he laid eyes on him. And that’s a whole new can of worms, one Eames is reluctant to open regardless of how nice it might be to see Arthur with his barriers down.

He knows Arthur shoots off at the mouth when he’s been drinking, and he knows which side of his mouth curls up first when he’s trying to hide a genuine smile. He’s made a career out of studying people, and his favourite objects of study are the ones that are hardest to crack. That makes Arthur his absolute favourite person in the world, even if he can’t stand the way Arthur treats him sometimes. He’s never been any sort of masochist before, he’s always leaned a little more towards _schadenfreude_ than sadomasochism, but really – Arthur just rubs him the wrong way nine and three quarters out of ten times a day, and rubs him _so right_ for the final fourth of the total.

He tries to tell himself that if Arthur would loosen the stick lodged in his ass just a little bit, he might be persuaded to _really_ rub Eames the right way, but since the sun will explode and the moon will drop out of orbit before that happens, he shouts himself down whenever the thought occurs to him.

Also, he’s really pretty sure that Arthur can read minds, and if he’s this insufferable after some flirting and ribbing, Eames doesn’t want to know what his reaction would be to Eames’ thoughts of _fucking_ and _rimming._ He laughs at his own bad joke because there’s no one he can share it with who’d laugh with him.

He goes to bed alone, thinking of Arthur’s sketchy past and uptight posture and suits that make Eames itch just looking at him, and thinks _It’s better than nothing at all._

When he comes into the warehouse they’ve rented out for the job and hears humming, he thinks maybe the generator might be about to blow up and resolves to check on it before anyone else gets in and they all get blown to kingdom come.

A brief check of the generators reveals that they’re in perfect working condition, and he tries not to think of _a kingdom of come_ because he’s pretty sure Arthur will pluck it from his brain and shoot him somewhere painful. The humming continues, and he checks over the rest of the warehouse to make sure they haven’t been invaded by aliens in the night – he has a fully legitimate argument to make when he accuses Arthur of having no imagination because his own is just so overactive, he could lock himself in a padded white room for ten years and probably only be bored for about five minutes total. No aliens, but there are lights on in the little kitchenette they’ve never bothered to use. That’s also where the humming is coming from, and Eames is forced to admit that overactive imagination or not, the generators aren’t about to explode and there are no aliens, and that only leaves the possibility that someone broke in.

_Who breaks into a warehouse and uses the kitchen without stealing anything?_ He wonders, because he’s looked and there’s nothing missing. He loosens his handgun in its holster either way because of stranger danger, and doesn’t quite draw it as he steps around the corner into the little offset kitchenette.

There’s a strange teenager standing over the stove, making _pancakes._

_Seriously,_ Eames thinks. _Who does that?_

“Excuse me,” he says instead, the gun half-drawn just in case. “You can’t be in here, this is private…property…” The words trail off as the teenager turns around and greets him with a sunny smile.

_Dimples,_ he thinks dumbly, and he knows, he’s known for a long time that as rare as it is, when Arthur smiles his cheeks dimple. The boy in front of him superficially resembles Arthur.

They have dimples, shaggy dark hair, and chocolate brown eyes. They’ve got the same lean, toned build, just broad enough in the shoulders that he can’t be called effeminate by any stretch of the imagination.

But that’s where the resemblance ends. Arthur has never worked a job in his life, Eames would put money on it, without a three piece suit and his hair slicked back. This kid is wearing tight jeans that perfectly showcase his concave abs, rounded ass, and firm thighs. He’s got on a purple tee-shirt that looks like its seen better days, stretching across his shoulders valiantly even though it’s probably about two stretches or a tug in the wrong direction away from tearing away from the kid’s body altogether. He’s wearing socks, but no shoes, and his hair is falling in his face despite the haphazard efforts to push it behind his ears. There’s a smudge of Bisquick powder streaking across one cheek.

“Yes I can,” he chirps. “I work here. You work here too, right?” He scrunches up his face. “Right, you’re Eames. Do you want some pancakes?”

And then Eames has to check his totem despite the fact that he can clearly remember waking up, showering, dressing, and driving to the warehouse, knows exactly how many steps he took from the front door to the generator to check on it, and which direction he turned each doorknob while looking for alien invaders. It’s his job to remember details, and he knows for a _fact_ that he’s not dreaming.

He still has to check his totem, because Arthur’s smiling at him, and Arthur only smiles _at him_ in his dreams.

He feels the kitchen tilt and whirl around him and he gropes blindly for the nearest stool to take his weight before he makes an undignified ass of himself by falling straight to the floor in a dead faint. He knows – _he knows_ it’s Arthur, he’s made it his life’s work to study the man, but he’s never seen Arthur like this, _never_ , and he has to ask.

Has to.

_“Arthur?”_


	2. Chapter 2

_You're aching, you're breaking  
And I can see the pain in your eyes  
Says everybody's changing  
And I don't know why  
 **Keane – Everybody’s Changing**_  
  
-o0o-  
  
“ _Arthur?_ ”   
  
Because really, at this point what else can he say? Good morning? I’m sorry I nearly pulled a gun on you, and by the way, _why are you wearing jeans?_ He didn’t even know Arthur _owned_ jeans, much less wore them. Granted, these are probably three thousand dollar designer jeans, but they’re still denim.   
  
And slightly flared at the calf. Arthur wears bootcut jeans, Eames thinks, and it’s something solid he can cling to in the face of this new reality. Everybody wears bootcut jeans, except those anorexic poufs who wear skinny jeans, and possibly gang-members who wear impossibly large jeans that fall down around their knees with or without a belt.   
  
“Yes of course,” Arthur says, and for a moment his expression is familiar, and Eames clings to the familiar like a man at sea clings to the wreckage of his burning ship. “Pancakes?”  
  
He looks hopeful. And even if Eames’ stomach weren’t roiling and tossing like the aforementioned sea, he’d have to turn him down because Eames doesn’t do breakfast. He’ll be sick in the loo all day if he eats now, and that’s not a very good way to have a productive day. “No thank you,” Eames says, and congratulates himself on how steady his voice is, given the circumstances. It’s not every day you come into work to find the man you’ve been lusting after for years and respect professionally and might-just-maybe be a little bit in love with has been replaced by a _pod person._  
  
That’s his newest explanation, because Arthur’s face falls, and the plate of pancakes – cooked to perfection, 360 degrees of pure golden brown goodness – wobbles slightly in his grip, and Eames feels like he’s just kicked a small animal rather than refused breakfast.   
  
“I can’t eat,” he explains, thinking: _I thought you knew this already._ “I get sick all day if I eat too soon after waking up. Stick some of them in the mini fridge and I’ll eat some later, okay?”  
  
Arthur looks mollified, which is reaching unparalleled levels of bizarre especially when considered against Eames’ unreasonable need to explain himself. “They won’t be any good later,” he says. “I’ll make you some more when you want them.”   
  
And Eames is torn between a mixture of _Really?_ And _You don’t have to._ And _You’re not my servant, what the hell, Arthur?_  
  
“That’s fine,” he says instead, and Arthur’s face lights up like its Christmas. Like Eames is doing him a favour by letting him cook for him.   
  
“Oh, dear. Arthur, this is not good.”   
  
They both turn towards the familiar voice coming from the doorway. Yusuf is standing there with his standard bag of tricks and drugs, a vaguely shell-shocked expression twisting his features.   
  
He enters the kitchen and dumps his bag on the counter. It clinks ominously, and Eames considers asking him if he’s got anything in there that’s breakable or flammable or any number of other ‘able’ words that add up to him _not_ spilling it all over the counters where they prepare or dole out food. Before Eames can get the words out, however, Yusuf is crossing the short kitchen aisle and taking Arthur’s chin in his hand.   
  
“Have you been here all night?”   
  
“’Snot the first time,” Arthur says, defensively. Eames winces internally at his slur and wonders where the pod is being kept. _Maybe the roof,_ he thinks, and then Yusuf is turning Arthur’s head back and forth, examining him and Eames feels an inappropriately possessive urge to snarl at him. Arthur submits meekly to Yusuf’s intense search, and Eames has just about used up his supply of shockability regarding Arthur for the day.   
  
“Dammit, Arthur, I _told_ you to let me know if you noticed anything out of the ordinary!” Yusuf barks at him, and Arthur flinches.  
  
 _Arthur flinches._ Eames is halfway off the stool before he considers what he’s actually about to do – defend Arthur, one of the deadliest men he’s ever known, against Yusuf, who without his chemicals is about as threatening as a goldfish – and then he realises how that might look to an outsider, and even though Arthur’s probably high as a kite on whatever drug cocktail Yusuf fed him last night and Eames would like nothing more than to be able to claim a position as Arthur’s defender, he knows that he has no right. Not to mention, Arthur might shoot his balls off when he comes down. He settles himself back onto the stool and watches as Arthur repeats his offer of breakfast.   
  
“I’d love some,” Yusuf says, and Arthur looks thrilled. “But only after you sit at that table and explain to me _exactly_ what’s wrong with you right now, and why you didn’t call me _the second_ you realised something was wrong.”   
  
And Arthur sits beside Eames at the little table, crammed in so close their knees are touching, and gives Yusuf a guileless look. “Something’s wrong?”   
  
Over his head, with Arthur looking between them like a curious child, or perhaps a puppy, Eames and Yusuf exchange identical looks of horror.  
  
-  
  
“Tell me from the beginning then, and we’ll try to work out what happened.” They’re all at the table except for Ariadne, who called in sick and sounded like she was actively vomiting between words, and Yusuf and Arthur have a plate of pancakes each in front of them. Eames’ nose twitches at the smell, but his stomach recoils, and he consoles himself with a perfectly brewed cup of tea.   
  
“I remember nearly everything, of course,” Arthur says, face wide open. It’s a character study for Eames – this must have been what Arthur was like as a younger man, possibly a teenager, of course. He wonders if somehow Arthur’s been regressed in his mental age, and then wonders if that makes him a pedophile for still wanting to knock the man into a bed and never let him up. He’s still physically thirty, after all. “I’m having a bit of trouble keeping track of names,” Arthur admits, breaking off Eames’ inappropriate train of thought. “But from the beginning. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, organizing his thoughts, and then starts in on his explanation.   
  
“Yesterday evening, just before everyone went back to their hotels for the night, you gave me another compound to test. Eames said something about control issues, and I told him he had a subscription, and then I went under. It was perfectly fine; I didn’t feel too hot or too cold, and the compound did exactly what it was supposed to – I was stabbed thirty six times, I hope you know, and even though I didn’t actually _feel_ any of it, it was still really bizarre to bleed to death and not even realise it was happening. There’s possibly a reason we feel pain, even in the dreams.”   
  
Yusuf glares at him before he can get off on a tangent, and even though Eames is curious about that thought himself, he’s also aware that they’re outnumbered three to two – Yusuf and his two evil, hateful eyes versus Arthur and Eames. Arthur clears his throat and tries again.  
  
“I came up out of the dream and no one was here.”  
  
“Because I expected you to take notes, Arthur. _Where are your notes?_ ”  
  
“I felt kinda shaky and weak, probably from bleeding out,” Arthur says pointedly. “I figured I’d write them down this morning, since I’m up before anyone else, and then I took a shower because my shoulders felt tense, and then I was tired, and didn’t think I could drive, so I slept here at the warehouse. When I woke up I didn’t have anything to wear except that horrible suit, so I ran out to Wal-Mart and got myself something decent to wear, as well as some food. Did you know there was _nothing_ at all in this place to eat?”  
  
“Who has time to cook?” Eames interrupts philosophically, trying to wrap his mind around the concept of Arthur announcing that _his suit was horrible_ and a _tee-shirt and jeans were decent._   
  
“Yes, well, I felt nauseous at the thought of choking down something greasy and fried from McDonalds, and I kinda wanted pancakes, so I got pancake mix and some milk and juice and other stuff for some real food. Then I came back and changed and started cooking, and them Eames came in, and then you came in. And really, nothing else of note has happened.”   
  
Yusuf pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “That tells me dick-all,” he announces. “Go back to last night. You didn’t feel yourself bleeding out because you couldn’t feel the pain. Could that have had something to do with it? Okay, you woke up tense.”  
  
“That tells us nothing,” Eames interjects. “Arthur’s always tense.”   
  
“I am, actually,” Arthur says, rolling his shoulders like there’s a knot between them and making a face caught somewhere between distaste and pain. “I think I work too hard. Do either of you know of any good massage parlours around here?”   
  
And Eames chokes on his offer to rub Arthur down himself, and then tries to breathe tea which causes him to actually choke. Arthur unhelpfully pounds a fist between his shoulder blades, but it’s only unhelpful for about a second before it actually clears whatever was going wrong in his trachea and he sucks in a deep breath. Somehow it’s not entirely surprising that Arthur knows just where and how hard to hit to help someone trying to inhale liquid. “Thank you,” he rasps gently, and is rewarded with Arthur’s beaming smile, dimples and all. Eames thinks, _He’s_ so _cute,_ and then realises what he’s thinking and takes another sip of tea to cover his sudden embarrassment.   
  
Yusuf lets the entire exchange pass in silence, and then growls, “No. No massage parlours. You’re not leaving this warehouse again until we figure out what went wrong.”   
  
And Arthur’s lips twist into a little moue, and Eames has to get up and look away, because _fuck,_ he’s only human. There’s only so much of pouting Arthur he can take before he jumps him and drags him to the nearest level surface. Privacy optional. He busies himself with another cup of tea, and then notices the coffee pot’s on but still full. Into the brief silence of Yusuf’s uncharacteristic glower and Arthur’s uncharacteristic sulking, he offers them coffee.  
  
Arthur jumps on it. “Yes please! I bought some creamer, it should be in the little fridge. Sugar, too.”   
  
And Eames pauses again, because he knows for a _fact_ that Arthur takes his coffee black. He may hate it, he may be unable to disguise the scowls he probably doesn’t even know he’s making when he’s drinking it, but he absolutely _refuses_ to drink it any other way. Except now he’s asking for a flavoured creamer and sugar. Eames fixes it to order in silence, and then sits down and watches Arthur’s face intently as he wraps his long, elegant fingers around the mug – _it is totally irrational to be jealous of a coffee cup, Eames,_ he tells himself urgently – and inhales with his eyes closed, a soft smile of pure enjoyment on his face before he takes a sip and _moans_ around the ceramic. Eames is suddenly very glad for the table, because it means his sudden and uncontrollable erection is totally hidden from view. He counts backwards from one hundred to make it go away.   
  
“God, that’s good,” Arthur says, his voice just this side of husky. “Thank you, Eames,” he breathes.   
  
And it’s probably the first genuine, non-condescending remark of gratitude Eames has ever gotten from Arthur. His erection springs back with a vengeance. While Arthur’s rhapsodising over his coffee and Yusuf is rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes, Eames makes his escape to the bathroom to take care of himself before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.   
  
-  
  
When he comes back, the other two have relocated to the sitting room where the PASIV waits like a silent beast. Yusuf is gently pushing the needle into Arthur’s wrist, and Eames pauses a moment and remembers when Arthur did that for him during the Fischer job.   
  
“What are you doing?” he remembers to ask a moment later, when he sees Yusuf hooking himself up.   
  
“We’re going to take a look inside Arthur’s head and see if we can’t figure out what the hell happened to make him – like this.” He gestures with his free hand at Arthur, who’s twisted in his seat and eyeing Eames with all the unguarded eagerness of a teenager.   
  
“Want to come down with us?” Arthur asks, before Yusuf can do anything. Eames makes a split second decision, disregarding his immediate desire to ask, _Like you even have to invite me?_ And his secondary impulse to say, _You couldn’t_ keep _me away,_ and just nods his head, coming to settle himself on the third chair. Hooking himself to the PASIV is almost second nature by now, and he does it without thinking.   
  
Just before Yusuf hits the master button to send them all down, he thinks to ask, “You replaced the compound Arthur was using last night, right? This is just regular Somnacin? We’re not all going to come out of this dream as pod-people, are we?”  
  
And Arthur asks, “Pod people?” with a look of such blank confusion that Eames almost laughs, except Yusuf just sighs and hits the button with his foot, and Eames doesn’t even have enough time to find a comfortable position before it doesn’t matter.   
  
He opens his eyes laughing, and Arthur’s shooting him a glare that’s almost as hateful as pre-drug Arthur, and Yusuf is motioning them both to silence.  
  
“This isn’t regular Somnacin, no,” Yusuf says. “But I’m fairly sure it won’t interfere with whatever happened to Arthur, and it’s certainly not harmful to us.”   
  
Eames says, “Fairly sure?” because that’s his _Arthur_ Yusuf is so candidly playing around with here, but then Arthur shushes them because… a second, suited Arthur is walking over to a second Yusuf and hooking himself up. They’re making small talk, and then a second Eames wanders over, and Eames realises that he’s not nearly as observant as he gives himself credit for.  
  
Suited-Arthur gives him such a naked, needy look that Eames feels like he’s been suckerpunched, but as soon as second-Eames comes within his direct line of sight, the look melts away into indifference.  
  
Second-Yusuf says, “Just tell him already,” with a roll of his eyes, and Suited-Arthur just sighs and shakes his head, and then Second-Eames is saying, “You have issues, Arthur,” in a sort of sing-song that reveals nothing of how much he wants to press Arthur down into that deck chair and snog his brains out. And then maybe shag a bit, and then snog some more until Arthur can’t remember his own name. And Eames thinks about that look of _wanting_ Arthur shot at him before he got close enough to see it, and thinks about all the times he’s _not_ pressed Arthur into the couch because he’s sure Arthur would rather shoot him than kiss him, and then all he can think is, _Well fuck, we’ve been wasting all this time we could have been shagging._  
  
It has not been time well spent. He wonders how many of their colleagues have noticed this unresolved sexual tension that hovers around them like a cloud. He wonders how he could have been _missing_ it all this time, and then reconsiders Arthur’s dark, narrow glare that he’s receiving before Yusuf sends him under. Really, with it all laid out in front of him like this, it’s no wonder he’s been missing it. Arthur’s perfect, icy control has completely buried all his wants and desires under a layer of what he probably tells himself is professionalism.   
  
Second-Yusuf busies himself measuring out liquids of indeterminate colours while Arthur dreams, and the real Yusuf strides over to the PASIV. “Come on, we’re following him down,” he says, and Arthur jumps.  
  
“This is my memory, right? How can we hook up to a dream of a memory to go into a dream?”  
  
Yusuf cocks a smile at him then. “It’s still a dream,” he says. “We can do anything in dreams.”  
  
So they do. They hook up to the memory-Pasiv and follow the memory of Arthur down into his dream. It’s insanely boring. Eames is yawning within the first five minutes, but he tags along with them anyway. Dream-Arthur in his impeccable suit is hard-eyed and grim, while the real thing is staring around himself in wonder, eyes wide and dimples revealing the smile he’s trying to hide.   
  
“This is so cool,” he says fervently, and Eames has to almost physically restrain himself from taking Arthur’s hand like they’re in grade school. He shoves his hands into his pockets and trails after them.   
  
When dream-Arthur wakes up, they follow him automatically. Dream-Yusuf is gone, the majority of the warehouse is dark. It’s vaguely eerie, and dream-Arthur gives a shudder as he looks around. He rolls his shoulders and grimaces at the pain, and goes and takes a shower. It’s exactly as Arthur described to them, except Eames has noticed that Arthur didn’t change until _after_ he came up from the dream. Throughout the whole thing – even the shock of looking down at his own abdomen and realising there’s several holes there that shouldn’t be in his skin and his blood is pouring out over his shoes doesn’t seem to faze him terribly – he’s just normal, uptight Arthur, but when he wakes, his eyes are wide and he shudders at the creepy atmosphere he’s surrounded by, and he actually takes notice when his body tells him something’s wrong.   
  
They kick out of the dream before Eames lets his mouth take control and suggest that they watch Arthur shower.   
  
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Yusuf mutters. Arthur beams at him, reminding Eames all over again of a hyperactive teenager.  
  
“It was fun, at least.”  
  
“But we missed out on the best part,” Eames adds before he can stop himself, flirting from habit. Arthur turns to him, a look of sincere curiousity on his face, but Yusuf interrupts before Eames can make an ass of himself even more than he already has.   
  
“There was no best part, and it wasn’t a joyride,” Yusuf says. “I still have no idea what the hell happened to you.”   
  
“We know one new thing,” Eames interjects, and gives his observations. Yusuf looks startled, and Arthur admiring, and not even Eames can convince himself that he doesn’t bask in that adulation.   
  
“Fine in the dream,” Yusuf says, mostly to himself. “He was, he was just fine before he woke up.”  
  
“I’m just fine now,” Arthur insists, but Eames isn’t allowed to gather him close and hug him until he’s figured out how this changes the rules, and Yusuf just pinches the bridge of his nose again, looking harassed, and they both let this comment pass.   
  
“So what changed?” The question is clearly rhetorical, and Yusuf doesn’t wait for either of them to make a comment before he hurries to his desk and his white board and begins making notes comprehensible only to himself.   
  
Left to their own devices, Arthur eyes Eames’ shoulders. “You’re pretty strong, right?”   
  
Eames can’t help the slightly sardonic lift to one of his eyebrows. “Pretty,” he says, and almost gets the modest tone right.   
  
It sails right over Arthur’s head. “Good, so, I was wondering if you might help me then. See, I’ve been wanting to do this for ages, but I can’t quite manage it on my own anymore.”  
  
About five hundred things race through Eames’ mind, starting with ‘what could it possibly be, I wonder?’ and ending with ‘auto-fellatio?’ Luckily his brain engages and stalls out the questions before any of them make it to his mouth. “What do you need?”  
  
Arthur flushes and grins boyishly, dimples flashing. Eames is charmed in spite of himself, and waits silently for Arthur to figure out what he wants to say.  
  
It doesn’t take him long. “If you could just put your hand on my back and sort of hold me up…?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Arthur takes him by the wrist, and Eames is privately thrilled. The meter ratchets up by about a thousand-fold when Arthur moves Eames’ hand to the small of his back, and he feels Arthur lean his weight against it. Since Arthur’s weight is negligible when compared to Eames’ strength – he swears the man doesn’t eat nearly enough – it’s no issue. And he’s delighted in the sudden trust Arthur is showing in him.   
  
Delighted, that is, until Arthur leans over too far, bending _over_ Eames’ hand and putting both of his palms flat against the floor. His tee-shirt rides up and bares a stripe of pale skin and rippling muscles. Eames feels his mouth go dry. “You can move now,” Arthur says from his backbend. He sounds breathless, but Eames can hear the smile in his voice. “In fact, it’s better if you do.”   
  
Eames reluctantly pulls his hand away, entranced by the sight of Arthur doing a back-bend.   
  
“I’ve been needing to stretch like this for _ages,_ ” Arthur confides. “But I just don’t have the balance any more to do it on my own. Thank you for your help.” He remains in that position for a few more seconds, and Eames is just getting into a fantasy of making him stay like that while Eames sucks him off when Arthur kicks his legs off the floor and slides easily into a handstand. He balances a few more moments and then lowers his legs and straightens. He sways gently for a second, and Eames jerks forward in an aborted movement to catch him if his balance fails, but he recovers and stretches his hands up over his head. The shirt rides up again.   
  
_Seriously,_ Eames thinks. _He must be doing this on purpose._ Arthur’s certainly never hinted that he was that flexible before, or that graceful or balanced or anything.   
  
“I really appreciate it, Eames,” Arthur says, and there’s not a trace of deception or condescension in his voice.   
  
“My pleasure,” Eames says before he can reconsider the words. It’s only the truth, after all. Then Arthur’s legs slide out from under him, and again Eames is moving to catch him before he realises it’s intentional, that Arthur’s doing the splits. He leans one way and then another, and through the foggy haze of lust that’s suddenly descended on Eames, it occurs to him that Arthur’s still stretching. He lays out flat on the floor and _twists,_ and Eames can hear joints popping from where he’s standing. He winces, but Arthur seems to find it refreshing. He’s certainly smiling widely when he stands back up.  
  
“I may not need a massage after all,” Arthur says. “Wasn’t sure I could still do that,” he admits, and then turns his grin on Eames. “Seriously, thank you. I feel so much better now.” And there’s nothing in his tone that suggests bitterness or anything even remotely negative. He just sounds… pleased.   
  
“Any time,” Eames mumbles, because his brain has checked out without advance notice. Rather than take advantage of his limber, entirely-too-young-seeming co-worker, he just eases himself out of the conversation and makes a bee-line for the bathroom. All he’s going to think about now is Arthur bending over backwards, Arthur with his ass flat on the floor while his legs go in opposite directions, Arthur doing a handstand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s enough to make him painfully hard.  
  
When he’s finished in the bathroom and washing his hands, he overhears Yusuf clearing his throat, and turns the water down to eavesdrop shamelessly.  
  
“That was pretty impressive,” Yusuf is saying. “Any particular reason?”   
  
“I had a serious crick in my back,” Arthur says, and Eames can _hear_ the grin in his voice now that he knows what he’s listening for. “Since you’re not letting me find a masseuse, this was the next best thing.”   
  
“Where’d you learn to do that?”  
  
And Arthur – who only yesterday might have lied or – metaphorically – shuffled his feet, or not even done it at all, not even admitted that he was in pain and needed something special – was completely candid in his answer. “I used to dance. I keep up with it sometimes because it’s useful, but I’m seriously out of practice.”   
  
Eames can’t help himself. He pokes his head out into the main room. “Dance? Like, ballet? Tap?”  
  
“Breakdancing,” Arthur calls back, and Eames steps into the room just in time to see Arthur fling himself into a handspring and land easily with his forearm the only point of contact with the floor while his legs contort in the air above his head. The power, the _control_ in his movements nearly has Eames running for the bathroom again. He thinks, _clearly I’m going to have to invest in some lube or some more condoms or something if he’s going to be like this._  
  
Because if Arthur’s going to spend the next however-long-it-is being utterly adorable and ravishingly sexy, Eames is going to need relief.   
  



	3. Chapter 3

_Where the streets are wide  
And the people thrive  
And its further to fall down  
Cause you fly so high  
 **Keane – Clear Skies**_  
  
-o0o-  
  
Eames has been watching Arthur for a very long time now. So long that he’s actually forgotten exactly how long it’s been. He can’t quite remember a time when Arthur wasn’t part of his life, and he’s fairly sure that he could forge him so perfectly his own mother wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.   
  
Watching this new Arthur is like watching an entirely different person. It’s fascinating in its own way, of course, and Eames feels like he’s actually getting to know the point man better. He’s already learned his new schedule after two days. Yusuf – taking the lead on Arthur’s involuntary incarceration, since it was his compound that messed with Arthur in the first place – decreed that a mattress be brought in, and sheets and pillows and blankets. They’ve jury-rigged a sort of curtain-wall around one corner where the mattress is, and it doesn’t seem to bother Arthur to sleep there as much as Eames would have initially thought.   
  
He gets up in the morning and stumbles into the kitchenette for coffee. Then he exercises and watches Yusuf playing with his compounds or reads a book. Often over the last several days, he’s cooked them real meals instead of relying on takeout or frozen things. Then he stretches out and retires to his corner.  
  
It’s been, Eames realises, entirely too easy to fall into a new routine with Arthur. He’s already used to the home-cooked meals, and watching Arthur’s limber flexibility return to him. He’s getting used to sitting with the point man in companionable silence and reading with him. On the third morning, Arthur doesn’t even need Eames’ help with his backbends any more, and Eames isn’t sure whether to mourn the missed opportunities to get his hands on Arthur’s body, or rejoice that he’s no longer wearing himself out trying not to be obvious about how often he’s been jerking off.  
  
So the evening of the third day comes as a surprise when Arthur attempts the backbend and nearly falls over. Eames lunges to catch him, an idle voice in the back of his head noting that for the first time in days he’s face to face with Arthur, not carefully situated at his side where he’d be mostly out of the way except for support. He’s not even immediately cognizant that in order to lean over the prone point man, he’s accidentally shoved his leg between Arthur’s thighs. No, that awareness comes later. In that moment, he’s only aware of one hand splayed against Arthur’s back, his pinky and ring finger in direct contact with skin where Arthur’s shirt has ridden up in the effort to stretch out. He reaches forward to put his other hand under Arthur’s neck when it appears the point man has passed out, or is close it. Instead of the tightly controlled bend-and-stretch Eames has grown accustomed to, he’s just dead weight in Eames’ arms.   
  
Eames pulls him up closer to get a better grip around the back of his neck when he realises that his thigh is literally centimeters from the ‘v’ of Arthur’s legs, and that Arthur’s leg in turn is pressed against his. Arthur’s head lolls, and for a split second, Eames knows real fear that Arthur’s hurt himself, has passed out in Eames’ arms, and he can’t even enjoy the contact.   
  
Arthur makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat, a husky, “Hmmm,” and then in a moment of sheer brilliance manages to do something that only three other people in the _world_ have ever managed.  
  
He jerks his arms forward, shouts, “Boo!” and actually startles Eames into dropping him.   
  
Almost instantly the adrenaline rush dies and Eames is torn clean in two between anger at Arthur’s prank and a sense of being impressed that he actually managed to startle Eames. He doesn’t have time to decide between the two, however, because Arthur is now on the floor – _he was just in my arms and between my legs, what the fuck?_ – and moaning pitiably.   
  
“My _back_ , Eames, fuck. You dropped me on _cement_ , you jerk.” He’s rubbing his lower back and tailbone with one hand, while the other presses on the space between his shoulders. “You’ll be lucky if I’m not paralysed,” Arthur whines, and Eames _just_ manages to stop the laughter bubbling up from deep inside because he can tell that despite the childish complaining, Arthur’s serious about it hurting. And after all, he _was_ just dropped from about four or five feet up onto a concrete floor.   
  
“I can’t even leave to find a massage, dammit,” Arthur says, and Eames realises belatedly that Arthur’s probably _bored._ He’s always seemed perfectly capable of entertaining himself before, but then also he’s never been confined to a single building while their chemist frantically tries to figure out what went wrong so he can fix it. There’s nothing either of them can do, Ariadne’s still sick – not that she’d have much else to do, either, but Eames thinks that she’d at least be good for entertainment value if nothing else – and then it occurs to Eames that he’s never seen Arthur bored because they’re always _working._ He’s always got something important to think about, or research, or _do,_ and Eames has no idea how he normally spends his free time. Or if the ‘normal’ free-time activities would appeal to this Arthur.   
  
Then he thinks about the way Arthur’s always hunched over a computer screen, or a file, or some paperwork that needs filling out – and why, for the record, does an illegal dreamshare scam require so much damn _paperwork,_ he wonders? – or even his little PDA/Blackberry thing, and he’s probably not exaggerating his back problems. Being dropped on a cement floor is definitely not going to do anything for his tension levels, either.   
  
Arthur drags himself up after a few minutes, proving decisively that he’s not paralysed, and limps towards his mattress. Eames considers for less than a second, and then strides forward to catch up and scoops Arthur into his arms. It’s not difficult; with the full strength of both arms supported by his body – as opposed to one hand keeping Arthur’s balance – Arthur’s full weight is barely a tug on his biceps.   
  
The point man makes an undignified noise at being picked up so easily, or being carried bridal-style across the warehouse floor, and Eames chuckles.  
  
“Sorry for dropping you, darling,” he says with complete sincerity. “But you did scare the bloody hell out of me and then startle me on top of it.” He risks a glance down into Arthur’s face, knowing there’s nothing on the floor to trip over either way, and meets a pair of rich, dark chocolate eyes. Arthur’s biting his lower lip, and looks so _painfully young_ with his teeth worrying his lip and his hair falling every which way and his eyes wide and earnest.   
  
“Sorry for scaring you,” Arthur says after a pause. Eames notes that he does _not_ apologise for startling Eames into dropping him.  
  
“That’s alright, love. I’ll make it up to you right now. Take your shirt off and lay face down on the mattress.”   
  
“As far as pickup lines go, that is the most incredibly least sexy thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Arthur notes dryly, and Eames feels a little thrill of pleasure. He hides it behind a teasing chuckle.  
  
“Who said I needed a line to pick you up?” he asks, and jostles Arthur for a moment before setting him on his feet behind the privacy curtain. Arthur pouts for a moment, considers – Eames can almost _see_ the wheels turning in his head – and then pulls his shirt off. Eames takes a moment to stare unabashedly – they’re both men, there’s nothing to be ashamed of – and notes that Arthur’s toned. He can see the wiry strength in the muscles that bunch and flex in his shoulders, the barest beginning of a four-pack in his stomach. Eames thinks about himself in comparison, notes that he probably outweighs Arthur by thirty or fourty pounds – not that there’s an ounce of superfluous flesh on either one of them – and feels delight curling in the pit of his stomach. Arthur stares back, totally unaware of the nature of Eames’ staring contest, and then finally lays down on his stomach, folding his arms beneath his head to form a pillow.   
  
“This good?” he asks, and Eames can already see bruises starting to form where he hit the floor. He hisses in sympathy.  
  
“I really am sorry for dropping you,” he says, because even if Arthur can’t feel them _now_ he will be shortly. And tomorrow. And possibly for quite a long time afterward. He may have considered leaving fingerprints or other bruises on Arthur’s body, but he’d always had a more carnal beginning in mind for them than ‘I dropped him on the floor.’ He backs away, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of Arthur’s shoulders, nearly as broad as Eames’, and his ribs and waist that narrows down at his lean hips and strong thighs.   
  
_Former dancer,_ Eames thinks, and his mouth goes dry again at the thought of having those powerful, controlled limbs wrapped around him while he takes Arthur apart with his body.   
  
“I’ll be _right back,_ ” he says, emphasizing. “Don’t move _at all._ ”   
  
“Mm,” Arthur says to his mattress. “I’m comfortable here,” he adds, in case Eames doesn’t speak ‘sleepy-Arthur’ (he doesn’t).  
  
Eames ducks around the curtain and gets massage oil from his desk. He rolls it around in his palm for a few minutes because he knows Arthur’s not going anywhere, and it’s better to take the time and warm it up than let it be cold and shock the hell out of people with freezing cold oil. It’s not as good as sticking it in the warmer he’s got at his hotel, but he figures that if they manage to make a habit of it, he can bring the warmer in.   
  
When he’s satisfied that Arthur won’t floor him for chilly oil, he goes back to Arthur’s little room in the corner, and pours some of the oil out onto his back. Arthur jerks, startled, and half-raises himself up on his elbows before Eames pushes him back down.  
  
“Eames, what-?”  
  
“Shh, darling, just let me work. I’m a master, after all.” And it’s not a lie. He’s taken classes and gotten licensed in several countries. He kneels over Arthur’s hips, resting his weight on the backs of Arthur’s thighs, and can’t stop thinking about how much he’d like to be here again. He can feel the strength in those legs as they shift against him, getting accustomed to his weight, and again the mental image flashes through his brain of Arthur clinging to him with just his legs, and thinks about putting his hands on the small of Arthur’s back while he does a sort of back-bend while Eames is fucking him, and then his cock starts to take notice of all the filthy thoughts in his head and he pushes them away before he can scare Arthur into fleeing him before he can do what he came here to do.  
  
He puts his hands lightly on Arthur’s shoulders and skims them down his back and sides, just firmly enough to move the oil onto his skin. Arthur flinches minutely, like a fly-ridden horse, but he doesn’t try to move away. Eames adds more oil and slides his hands down Arthur’s skin again, and then begins at his neck and shoulders and puts pressure into it. Almost instantly, he can feel the lines of tension in Arthur’s muscles, knots that feel as solid as the concrete floor of the warehouse. He pushes his fingers into them, and Arthur jerks. Very faintly, he can hear Arthur muttering under his breath, and he leans forward both to get a better angle on the tense muscles and hear him better.   
  
“Fuck. Ow, ow, ow, fuck, ow, _shit_ ,” Arthur’s murmuring. Eames lets his hands glide over Arthur with no pressure for a moment.  
  
“It’ll get better if you relax a little,” he says, and there’s a brief moment where he doesn’t think Arthur will do it, or even if he can, and then Arthur lets out a sigh and goes limp. Already it’s a vast improvement, and Eames begins work at his shoulders again, knowing that Arthur carries most of the tension there. He rubs and presses and works Arthur’s shoulders until he can feel the tightness loosen, almost against Arthur’s will. Almost certainly against Arthur’s will, because as soon as it melts away, Arthur chokes off another swear word, and then _moans._   
  
Instantly, Eames is diamond-hard in his pants, and he bites his lip to keep his focus on what he’s doing and not on the noises Arthur’s making.  
  
Somewhere beyond the curtain, Yusuf clears his throat. “I would really, _really_ appreciate it if you could do that sort of thing when I’m not here,” he says pointedly.   
  
“We’re still fully clothed,” Eames shouts back, and then feels Arthur practically vibrating under his hands. He catches a glimpse of the point man’s face and realises he’s _laughing._ Arthur shoots him an amused glance, and Eames realises that he’s stopped moving, and he continues the massage. Arthur – whether on purpose to distract Yusuf, or accidentally as Eames draws them out of him – begins making more noise.   
  
“Oh,” he says, almost soft as another coiled knot releases into fluidity. “Oh,” he says again, louder. “Oh! Oh my god, _Eames._ ”   
  
He sounds wrecked already, and Eames bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep his focus. He’d love nothing more than to rip Arthur’s jeans off him and show him what else Eames can do with his hands, but now is _not_ the time and he knows it. Arthur wriggles slightly under him, and moans again, face buried against his arms.   
  
“Fuck, Eames, that feels so good,” he says.  
  
“Remember you’re not alone here, there is no privacy!” Yusuf shouts, and Arthur laughs breathlessly.   
  
“I don’t care,” he says back, voice hitching as Eames moves his hands lower. “Fuck, Eames, do that again,” he adds, back arching, and Eames swats at his side.  
  
“Stay still, you’re going to ruin all my good work before I’m done.”   
  
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Yusuf mutters audibly. “I can’t work like this,” he adds, sounding put out.   
  
Eames’ fingers trail lightly over Arthur’s side, getting a feel for him, and Arthur wrenches slightly, laughing breathlessly. “That tickles,” Arthur says accusingly, and Eames can’t quite hide his grin as he digs back into the muscles on Arthur’s back. Arthur lets out a whine from the back of his throat, panting as he swears.   
  
“Fuck, Eames, you feel so good,” he breathes, and Eames feels his own breath hitch. Arthur’s looser down at his lower back, and Eames doesn’t have to work as hard. “I think I may be in love with your hands,” Arthur admits, choking back another cry because he’s not as bad off near his hips as he was at his shoulders, but his back is still tight and Eames isn’t finished yet.   
  
“I’m leaving, thank you, good bye!” Yusuf shouts, clearly from the doorway because seconds later the door slams and an air of silence that comes from being alone in a large space settles over the warehouse. Eames realises a moment later that not all of Arthur’s noises were for Yusuf’s benefit, because he lets out an aborted sort of sob when Eames digs into the mass at the small of his back. Arthur’s hips lift involuntarily, pushing his back – and therefore his ass – into Eames’ touch. Eames can’t tell if Arthur’s as hard as he is, if he’s actually trying to get friction on the front instead of his back, and he bites back on the desire to reach under Arthur’s stomach and undo his trousers and reach in and see what other noises he can wring from the point man. Arthur settles quickly, his breathing even as Eames finishes up the massage.   
  
Eames lets his hands glide up Arthur’s back, feeling proud of the loose muscles and lack of tension he can feel under the skin. _I did that,_ he thinks smugly, and leans over Arthur to put his mouth beside Arthur’s ear.  
  
“I want to fuck you so bad right now,” he confesses in a whisper. “You’re so fucking hot. Jesus.”   
  
Arthur sighs, but a second later Eames realises it’s not because of anything he said; Arthur is deeply asleep beneath him, and Eames bites back on his urge to swear violently. Instead, he carefully picks himself up, gathers the bottle of oil and then escapes into the bathroom to clean up and take care of himself.   
  
Eames settles back in a reclining chair with a book, and is close to taking a little nap of his own when Yusuf returns, Ariadne in tow.   
  
“Where’d you hide the body?” Ariadne asks, and she doesn’t quite sound like herself yet, but she’s much better than she was.   
  
Eames jerks in surprise, nearly losing his place in the book. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Yusuf says Arthur was bouncing around like a puppy the last few days and he left while you were fucking, and now Arthur’s not here. Ergo, you must have killed him and stashed the body somewhere to hide the evidence.” She’s looking around the warehouse curiously, and Eames wonders if she’s looking for blood spatter or signs of a struggle.   
  
He pulls on his flirtatious mask and grins at her. “Much to my regret, dear girl, we were not, in fact, fucking. He was wound tighter than a coil and I was apologising for dropping him on the floor by giving him a massage. He fell asleep, and if you don’t believe me, take a look around that curtain and tell me if he’s not still there – and still breathing.”   
  
Ariadne lifts an unimpressed eyebrow and makes her way to the curtained-off area. Arthur surprises her into a shriek by popping out rubbing his eyes.   
  
“Ariadne?” he asks, and blinks at her while he tries to focus. There’s a loose agility to him that’s obvious now that he’s not holding himself so upright. His hair is half-sticking up on one side, and Eames thinks he’s adorable. He’s never seen Arthur wake up from a true sleep before – because PASIV awakenings don’t count, they hardly move while they’re connected, and if Arthur goes under perfectly put together then there’s no question of his rising in the same state. It is, Eames decides, something he can definitely get used to. Arthur flashes a half-grin at Ariadne, brightening. “You’re okay! I was beginning to get worried about you.”   
  
He doesn’t quite hug her. Ariadne looks like she’s been replaced by cardboard, and Eames briefly wonders if he should start charging by the hour for his massages before deciding he only wants his hands on Arthur right now.   
  
“Arthur?” she asks, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Arthur stretches, pushing his hands up above his head and rolling forward onto the balls of his feet.   
  
“Who else?”   
  
“You look…different,” Ariadne says, taking in his loose, mussed-up hair and shirtlessness.   
  
Arthur flashes a dimpled grin in Eames’ direction. “Well, I’m feeling very relaxed right now. A very talented man just pushed me into the mattress and –”  
  
“Finish that sentence and I will poison you,” Yusuf interrupts, glaring balefully. Arthur laughs, and it’s a carefree noise that sounds more at home coming from someone about ten or fifteen years younger than Arthur. Eames wonders how the hell he’s going to ever get any work done ever again with Arthur behaving like this. It’s not bad enough that he’s _still shirtless_ , or that he’s smiling easily, or that it’s visibly apparent that he’s more relaxed – and he does look fucked out, Eames thinks, oh my _god_ – but when he’s saying things like _that_ –   
  
No, Eames is quite sure his productivity level is going to be around zero percent for the next six or seven weeks at this rate.   
  
_I really love this side of him, _he thinks, and then jolts as he realises he’s just thought about _Arthur_ and _love_ in the same sentence. Shock creeps up over him like a shroud, and it hits him all at once.   
  
__I’m in love with Arthur.____


	4. Chapter 4

_I'm back to where I was before  
Dreaming of glory and your love  
And I'm laying on your floor  
Crashed on the surface in your arms  
 **Keane – Your Love**_  
  
-o0o-  
  
He’s loved several people over the course of his life. He loves as easily as he breathes, because it’s an integral part of _living_. But he doesn’t think he’s ever been _in_ love before. Not like this.   
  
Eames has always wanted Arthur in his bed, from the very first moment they met. He shook his hand with Dominick and Mallorie Cobb standing off to the side looking very much like proud parents, and introduced himself with his _real_ name because the sight of Arthur had temporarily shut down his higher brain functions like keeping himself safe and actually _thinking_.  
  
“I’m Daniel Eames. Eames, if you please.”  
  
A tight, warm grip. “Arthur Moss. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eames.”   
  
And out of the corner of his eye, he registered surprise and dismay from the Cobbs, and part of him just knew that Arthur had just given his true name, as well. His eyes flickered over the suit and tie, the carefully slicked back hair, the tell-tale bulge of cigarettes in his pocket, and thought, _I would sell my soul to get this man into bed with me._   
  
Over the years, whenever Arthur called he’d jump. He was fairly certain that it was never as obvious as he felt, and Arthur certainly didn’t abuse the power, but they were always carefully professional, except when they weren’t. Eames flirted, but Arthur seemed oblivious. And then Mal jumped, and Arthur spent the next three years trailing after Cobb, picking up his pieces and carefully putting them back together, and Eames felt an immense sort of respect for Arthur, that he could do this for someone. He thought, _If Arthur ever falls, I want to be there to pick him up._ And so he flirted and conned his way past Arthur’s defenses, and the man he found there charmed him more than ever. No more the tight, prissy, polite point man, Arthur let Eames get under his skin and in turn wormed his way under Eames. He knew, of course, how much Eames despised being known as _Mr. Eames_ and he never missed an opportunity to use it. In turn, Eames flung pet names around like they were currency, and he never missed the minute flinch Arthur gave whenever he drawled out ‘Darling’ on a job – always on a job, though, and whenever they found themselves alone Arthur dropped the ‘mister’ and Eames found his Darling’s coming out more sincere than sarcastic, and Arthur didn’t flinch.   
  
He’s been, Eames realises suddenly, falling in love with Arthur from the very beginning. He’s only just now realising this.   
  
Ariadne snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he jerks, startled.  
  
“Yes, my sweet?”  
  
“You looked kinda spacy. Sudden epiphany?” And the smirk on her face is just on the wrong side of curious, and suddenly Eames wonders is _everyone_ is telepathic, and he just sort of missed out on the gene that carries it.   
  
But her attention draws Yusuf and Arthur to him, and Arthur’s staring him in the face, his eyes wide and almost innocent. “Are you alright, Eames?” he asks, and Eames can hear the check in his voice as he just stops himself from using the dreaded ‘mister.’   
  
“I’m,” Eames says. “I’m fine.” And then he is. He’s in love with Arthur, okay, he’s known for a long time even if he didn’t _know._ He can deal with this, there’s nothing new here. He flashes a grin, and that must convince them because they leave him alone.  
  
“I can’t believe you let me fall asleep,” Arthur says, almost pouting. “You didn’t even let me say thank you. I feel much better now,” he adds, and Eames grins.  
  
“Whenever you need me, darling,” he says, and means it.   
  
Arthur seems to realise this, and his smile is almost shy. He opens his mouth, but before he can get any of the words out, Ariadne’s yelling at them from across the warehouse.  
  
“Hey, guys! Quit flirting and get over here, I’m going down with Arthur to see if I can tell what went wrong.”   
  
They trudge over, Arthur _still shirtless_ , and Eames says, “If Yusuf or I didn’t catch it, I doubt you will,” because he’s bitter over Ariadne interrupting their moment.  
  
“Women’s intuition,” Ariadne shoots back. “Plus, I have a totally different perspective on things.” She flicks a glance over Arthur’s body, and Eames feels an irrational desire to cover him. “Also, Arthur, please go put some clothes on, you’re distracting.”   
  
Arthur shoots her a delighted grin, but obeys without comment. He’s rolling his shoulders again when he returns, but Eames decides it’s probably got more to do with the feel of his cotton shirt rubbing against his still-slightly-oiled skin and isn’t a residue of the pain Eames massaged out of him.   
  
They all go down into the dream, and it plays out exactly as it did the first time. When they come back up, Ariadne looks thoughtful.   
  
“It was supposed to be a pain-suppressor,” she comments after a few moments of silence. “And it worked, except for the weird side effects. Yusuf,” she adds suddenly, jerking upright. “Might it have ended up suppressing more than just pain?”  
  
“You mean like inhibitions or filters? Those aren’t chemical, though, and this was designed to respond directly to chemical pain receivers, blocking them and preventing the signals from getting through.”   
  
Ariadne frowns, her theory shot down. They spend an hour in almost total silence, Arthur’s die rolling back and forth between his hands. Ariadne flicks a glance over at him, and then says to Eames, “You told him he has control issues before he went down.” Eames nods slowly, verifying the facts. “Then he went down into the dream and – lost control.”   
  
They’re all listening to her now, Arthur’s die lying still on the floor, almost forgotten.   
  
“Ariadne,” Yusuf breathes. “I think it may have – like hypnosis –” and she’s not even waiting for him to finish his sentences, nodding and adding,  
  
“A suggestion. Going under like that put him in a suggestive state, and his brain translated it the only way –”  
  
“It knew how, yes,” Yusuf interrupts, and then they’re off and running, bouncing their ideas back and forth.   
  
Arthur pockets his die and retreats to the kitchenette. “Eames,” he calls over his shoulder. “Would you come here for a moment?”  
  
Ariadne and Yusuf don’t even notice them taking their leave, already deep into a conversation about how to undo the damage. When Eames comes into the kitchen, Arthur’s leaning against the stove and Eames has a quick flash back to the very first morning, when he came in and Arthur was cooking.   
  
His mouth twists, and Eames wonders what he’ll need to do to learn to read minds like everyone else. He’d kill to know what Arthur’s thinking – word for word – in this moment. “I’ve known for a few days,” Arthur says, and it completely blindsides Eames.  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“How to fix myself,” Arthur clarifies. He can’t quite seem to meet Eames’ eyes. “I’ve known since that afternoon, when we came back up out of the memory dream together.”   
  
Eames is utterly flabbergasted. “Then why haven’t you?”  
  
Arthur’s lips twist further. “You seemed to like me better this way,” he says softly. “You’re…paying me actual attention, and not just that bubble-flirting you do, all show with no substance. You’re nice to me. We’re not fighting any more. I really hate fighting with you, except sometimes when we’re just…teasing you know?”   
  
He flicks Eames a hopeful glance, but Eames is incapable of doing anything besides staggering toward the little table and drawing a stool out for himself. “You,” he says, and then doesn’t know what he wants to say and stops.   
  
“I know it was kind of selfish,” Arthur says, and wraps his arms around his chest protectively. “But Ariadne was sick, and it wasn’t like we were getting anything productive done either way, and it was… It was fun. Especially earlier. Even though you dropped me. I could,” he adds, and clears his throat like the words are physically damming up behind his tongue. “I could never have done anything like that…before. Just let you… hold me. Hold me up,” he corrects himself, flushing. Eames still can’t get anything past his brain, and he just sits there and lets Arthur make his confession. “And then we were so close, and I couldn’t stand it, so I startled you, and you dropped me, and that _hurt_ , by the way,” he adds again, a tiny pinprick of a reminder. “And then you made up for it by… touching me.”  
  
And Eames mouth is dry again, because the way his voice falls over the words it’s like he’s a virgin who’s just discovering the pleasures of his body.   
  
“The massage, it was… it was the most wonderful thing in the world. And I realised that all this time, Eames…” He breaks it off, and rakes a hand through his hair. “Eames, I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.” The words rush out in a tidal flood, and Eames brings his eyes up to look Arthur in the face, and his cheeks are pink, his eyes are averted, and he’s chewing on his lower lip, looking devastatingly ravishing and innocent and lovely, and just…  
  
Wrong.   
  
“Oh,” Eames says, the first thing he’s managed thus far. “That’s… Okay. I don’t love you,” he adds before his brain catches up, because what he’s thinking is _Arthur loves me, and I love him, and I want the old Arthur back now so I can tell him._ What he means isn’t ‘I don’t love you,’ what he meant to say was ‘I love you as you are normally, so you don’t have to be something special for me.’  
  
But before he can clarify this, Arthur’s breath whooshes out of him like he’s been holding it, and the expression on his face is just – _devastated_ – and Eames thinks, _shit, I fucked up,_ and then Arthur’s pushing past him, almost running.   
  
“Arthur, wait,” Eames says, but he’s not fast enough and Arthur’s gone.   
  
-  
  
“I seriously, seriously screwed up,” Eames says a few minutes later, interrupting Yusuf and Ariadne. They look up and blink like owls at him, only just realising that they weren’t being watched the whole time.   
  
“Where’s Arthur?”   
  
“No clue,” Eames says, shrugging and falling into his chair. “I said the wrong thing, and he took off. I don’t think he’s in the warehouse right now, though.”   
  
“Fucking Christ, Eames, he’s been stuck in here because in his current state there’s no telling _what_ he’ll do, and you just let him run away from you? What if the mark picks up on him? He’s got enemies, Eames, and he can’t just disappear the way you can.” Yusuf lunges to his feet, grabbing his coat. “I’m going to go look for him.”  
  
Ariadne turns a pitying look on Eames. “What happened? You look like he punched you in the stomach.”   
  
“I feel like he punched me,” Eames admits. “We sort of had a confession.”  
  
She lights up. “Oh, you finally got your heads on straight?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Eames, it’s been totally obvious to me from the very beginning that you two were head over heels for each other, and the only ones who didn’t know it was you.”   
  
“I didn’t know, though,” Eames says. “I never thought of it _like that_ before, until today. And he told me he’s known how to – to _fix_ himself from the very beginning, but he didn’t because he thought I liked him better this way, but I don’t, not really, I actually feel kind of like a pervert because he seems so much _younger_ like this, and I miss our little squabbles and that glare he used to give me when I was being an idiot and just… _him._ Arthur, the way he is, that’s who I love, not this new Arthur who has no control over himself. That’s fun. I’d like it if Arthur can really let loose like this sometimes, but just for me, you know? Not because he can’t help it. And I said… I said I didn’t love him.”   
  
“Oh, Eames,” and Ariadne’s next to him, giving him sort of a half-hug.  
  
“I just realised that I _do_ and then I told him I didn’t, I just want the old Arthur back. What am I going to do now? How can I make up for this?”  
  
A familiar voice from the bathroom stops him short. “Well, you can start by pulling yourself together and stop whining.”  
  
Ariadne and Eames jerk up and stare. Arthur’s back. Slicked hair, suit, narrow glare. It’s all there. Then his face breaks, and he kind of smiles a little bit, and adds, “And being on call for massages wouldn’t hurt.”   
  
And Eames looks at him, and just knows, instinctively, that Arthur’s ‘fixed himself’, that this is Arthur with all his control and looking and acting his age again, and this is _his_ Arthur. With just a hint of the new Arthur buried in the spark of mischief gleaming in his eyes, in the dimple that he can’t quite hide.   
  
_I can live with this,_ Eames thinks, and gets up. Arthur meets him halfway. “I lied,” Eames says, before anything else can come out of his mouth. “I do love you. I just didn’t know it.”  
  
And then Arthur’s in his arms, and they’re kissing, and it’s wonderful. Especially when Arthur leans so far back that Eames has to catch his weight in his arms or he’s going to drop him again. “Mr. Eames, I am impressed,” Arthur says, and there’s not even a hint of condescension or bitterness in his voice. “It only took you five years to get around to saying it.”   
  
And Eames can live with five years lost if it means he gets to make up for it for the rest of their lives. He jerks, startled, in wonderment that he can even _think_ things like that, but then he figures they’ll actually cross that bridge when they come to it. Probably he’ll dig in his heels and be obstinate, and Arthur will do something terrible and unexpected and push Eames into dropping him only to pull him down after him.   
  
“I love you, Arthur Moss,” he whispers against Arthur’s throat, and is rewarded with a husky laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

_It's time to make a start  
to get to know your heart  
time to show your face, time to take your place  
In every speck of dust  
In every universe,  
When you feel most alone, you will not be alone  
Just shine a light on me, shine a light  
I'll shine a light on you, shine a light  
and you will see my shadow on every wall  
and you will see my footprint on every floor  
 **Keane – My Shadow**_  
  
-o0o-  
  
The job goes off without a hitch, especially now that Arthur’s back to pure professionalism. The only difference between then and now is that Arthur and Eames aren’t even bothering with the pretense of separate hotel rooms.   
  
It’s going to be a special night all around; Yusuf and Ariadne duck out early to get dinner together, and Arthur invites Eames out. It’s just dinner, nothing that they’ve never done before, but the smouldering flame in Arthur’s eyes sets Eames’ every nerve on fire.   
  
Dinner is a quiet affair, and then Arthur stretches and pulls away from the table. “I’m feeling rather tense, Mr. Eames,” he admits, and for a moment Eames forgets why they’re there. “I was wondering if you’d be up to it tonight.”  
  
Eames flirts from habit. “And pass up a chance to get my hands all over your slicked up body?” Only the predatory tilt to his smile gives him away. He knows what Arthur’s asking.  
  
They rise in tandem, Arthur seriously overpaying for both the meal and the tip by slapping three hundred-dollar bills down on the table, and then burst out into the streets like children, laughing and staggering. It’s pouring with rain outside, and Arthur scowls as his pomade runs and his hair falls into his face, but before he can push it back, Eames is there running his hands through it.  
  
“Leave it,” Eames asks. “I like it like this.”   
  
“Do you?”  
  
“Oh, yes.”   
  
They hail a cab and get a ride back to the hotel, thrumming with nervous energy. It’s one thing to admit feelings in words to someone. It’s another thing entirely to submit and conquer and tear away the last few flimsy barriers of clothing and really _see._  
  
They barely make it into the hotel room before Arthur’s ripping his tie off, unbuttoning his shirt and pressing against Eames for a kiss. Eames gropes behind him to lock the door without breaking the fierce contact, and then he’s opening his own shirt and helping Arthur out of his, and then they’re shirtless and panting when Arthur breaks them apart.   
  
“I was serious about the massage,” he whispers. “You up for it?”  
  
“Arthur, if you ever even suggest that I’m not up for putting oil all over you and rubbing you down, I’m going to do something very drastic and possibly cruel.”  
  
Against all reason, this sets the low fire in Arthur’s eyes up again. “Oh?”  
  
“Yes. I’m going to suck you until you’re just about to come, and then I won’t let you. I’ll tie you up to the bed and touch myself and make you watch, but I won’t let you come.”  
  
“ _Oh._ ” And there’s a ragged edge to Arthur’s voice that says he might possibly enjoy that, and Eames tucks it away in the back of his mind like he does with all the little snippets of information he’s learned about Arthur.   
  
They break fully apart, and Eames turns to get the oil and sees that it’s already sitting on the warmer. He flashes a grin at Arthur, who smiles impishly back at him. “I see you’ve been planning for this,” he says, and grabs the oil while Arthur shimmies out of his trousers. He’s not wearing anything underneath, and Eames can almost _feel_ his eyes dilate, sheer _want_ overwhelming him.   
  
“And you didn’t even need to drop me this time,” Arthur quips, and then lays down on the bed. Eames strips down and straddles him, and already it’s more intimate and erotic than anything he’s ever seen or done before. The lights are low, there’s a quiet song playing in the background, and he thinks that all he needs for this to be complete is candles. There are none in the hotel room, however, and he’ll have to make do with the scented oil instead.   
  
It’s enough. He works the new tension out of Arthur’s shoulders, sighing. “You really ought to stop letting yourself get to this point,” he says, and Arthur just sort of hums at him by way of a reply. It turns into a sigh and then a moan as Eames works his way down to Arthur’s ass, still working the oil into his skin, and he can tell, just by the way Arthur’s hips are ever-so-gently rutting against the mattress that he’s as hard as Eames is, just from the little bit they’ve been doing. Eames slides down Arthur’s legs, sitting on his calves, and then bends forward. His hands have been stroking and caressing this whole time, and Arthur has no warning beside the shift in position to let him know what Eames is up to when Eames pulls the rounded arches of his ass apart and reveals the puckered ring of muscle. He knows Arthur is clean, and he doesn’t hesitate for a second before letting his tongue flick out and touch it. Arthur jerks as if he’s connected to a live wire.  
  
“Fuck, Eames,” he gasps. “Don’t do that, that’s –”  
  
Eames ignores him in favour of pushing the tip of his tongue inside, and Arthur’s protests die on a moan. He licks and sucks and nips and all the while Arthur’s twitching and jerking, moaning like he can’t help himself. Taking advantage of Arthur’s distraction, he oils his fingers up, makes a mental note to invest in some proper lube – possibly flavoured, just for variety – and then slides one digit in up to the first knuckle. He rubs it around, learning Arthur’s body from the inside, and knows he strikes paydirt when Arthur stiffens suddenly with a choked off curse.  
  
“What the fuc – oh my god – _Eames_ –”  
  
“Haven’t you ever done this to yourself, darling?” Eames asks wickedly, crooking his finger again and again until Arthur is incoherent with it. He pulls away when he sees that Arthur’s close to the edge and returns to the massage briefly, making good on this earlier threat. Arthur whines deep in his throat, pushing his hips against the mattress.  
  
“Please, Eames, don’t leave me like this,” he begs, and Eames puts one hand on the small of his back to prevent him from rubbing off against the duvet. The other hand he slicks up again quickly and adds another finger, not bothering to search for the bundle of nerves that will set Arthur off and instead preferring to stretch him out and make sure there’s plenty of oil to prevent unnecessary friction and pain. He stops only to unwrap a condom, coat himself with more oil – he’s going to have to look into more massage oil, too, after tonight – and press himself against Arthur, slowly pushing in. Arthur winces, but he’s stretched out and slicked up and a little bit of discomfort is only par for the course at this point. Eames continue to push, slowly and steadily, until he’s sheathed up to the hilt in Arthur’s body.   
  
“Hips up, love,” he gasps, arranging a pillow underneath Arthur to tilt him up more comfortably, and then he pulls out in one motion and thrusts forward. By the broken words and keening whine that Arthur lets out, he knows he’s found the right angle, and he does it again. Slowly, so slowly, no matter how Arthur’s begging right now for him to just _hurry up_ and _go faster_ and _harder_ and Eames thinks that if all he had to go on was Arthur’s voice he could come in seconds. He’s trying to make their first time memorable, though, and he forces himself into a slow rhythm, slowly taking Arthur apart with each thrust. He’s only just started to break his pace when Arthur shudders and yells and almost convulses around him as the orgasm rips through him, and then Eames is tumbling over the edge after him, coming with a shout that may have been Arthur’s name.   
  
At least he’s fairly sure it’s no one else’s name.   
  
-  
  
Eames wakes in the morning naked and covered in sweat and come. He can’t even consider this, however, because he’s immediately distracted by the sight of a sex-rumpled Arthur tucked under his chin, wrapped around each other so that there’s no way to tell where one ends and the other begins.   
  
“good morning,” Arthur mumbles, blinking up at him with a sleepy smile.   
  
“Good morning,” Eames whispers back. They forgot to close the curtains the night before – not that it matters, they’re on the thirtieth floor – and the sun is creeping up the bedspread to illuminate them.   
  
  
**Ende!**


End file.
